Quiet Words
by lisa.ryanz1oh1
Summary: A rediscovered story I had written a while ago. BAMF! John in character in his quiet unassuming way, speaking in quiet words.


**Quiet Words**

Since I really like BAMF John, this came to me while I was pondering one of my current on-going stories, **Under Marching Orders from My Heart**. This story is planned as a short one-shot.

And now … Enjoy the story!

* * *

It wasn't the first time that John returned from his work at the clinic to an empty apartment. Knowing how involved his flatmate and friend Sherlock Holmes could get with any case he was solving, John had become accustomed to staying alone in their large flat for random, extended periods of time, broken only by sleep or a message from the detective asking him to assist at some or the other crime scene somewhere in London.

Usually he could have the flat to himself, and spend it watching telly or spending time with their motherly landlady Mrs. Hudson, cooking messes together. It was a comfortable, homely, peaceful time and so rare that John often missed it in the adrenaline rush that was his life with Sherlock Holmes. But as he checked his phone for the message that had just chimed in, and got up to fetch the keys and his coat, he knew for a fact that he wouldn't give up any of it for the world.

As always the crime scene was cordoned off by the police tape with Sergeant Sally Donovan standing behind it. Her eyes hardened a bit when she saw him approaching.

"Didn't expect to see you Doctor Watson."

"Likewise. May I go in?"

"The DI said to show you in when you came. Follow me."

"And yet you say you didn't expect to see me," John spoke softly.

Sally's back stiffened. "I get enough of that freak friend of yours' spouting off nonsense and talking big, looking down on us, and I'll thank you not to start now. You've lived around that sociopath too long and now he's rubbing off on you." He turned on her heel and marched ahead of John, not waiting for him.

"Sherlock is not a freak. And since he's here on the specific request of your Detective Inspector who is no fool, no matter what you may think of his decision of calling Sherlock in to advise on any murders, you might want to ask yourself why DI Lestrade depends more on someone you label a _psychopath_ than any of you upstanding officers? His tally of solving these crimes has been consistently higher than the police after all. And as you pointed out to me long ago, he's not paid for it. And yet he's here, willing to help Lestrade in the best way he knows and for that you despise him? Grow up Sergeant. Maybe then Sherlock wouldn't have to point out the painfully obvious all the time."

By this time, both Sally and John were in the house, just inside the door, facing each other in the narrow entrance corridor. Sally face was pinched as if she'd been forced to swallow a lemon, staring at the doctor, her face white, brown eyes wide; she swallowed convulsively, shaken at the tone in this man's quiet voice. He sounded as bored as the Fr – _Sherlock_ – hard, implacable, indifferent; and yet it was his eyes that brought home the change in the man.

Blue eyes, dark as a roiling whirlpool, stared back at her in contempt, making her feel like he was ripping apart her soul, passing some sort of inescapable judgment. It was worse than the F – _Sherlock's_ – damning testimony of evidence of every facet of her life and her failures. Somehow, the fact that the quiet, amiable, friendly Doctor Watson who came along to keep the psychopath in line, could think of, much less speak so harshly of anyone was jarring. Like she was only now waking up from some deep sleep to see the truth of her dreams. She drew in a shuddering breath and in just that second, John Watson _smiled_ at her before turning to go look for Sherlock.

And stopped.

Shaking out of her stupor, Sally turned to see why the doctor had stopped and to her burning shame saw the DI and Sherlock both standing there, having obviously heard everything. Sherlock's impassive gaze barely flickered over her to rest on his flatmate, his features shuttered and eyes glinting. Lestrade, however, less used to hiding his expressions, was caught between glaring at her and looking apprehensively at the doctor. Sherlock broke the silence.

"Do come along, John. The body is this way. I need your professional opinion on some of these injuries. And an official time of death. Anderson _did_ something before I got here and …"

John grinned helplessly as Lestrade as he passed him following the detective who had walked on into the house ahead of them, not waiting to see if anyone was following; as per usual. The DI managed a twitch of his lips in return, some of the tension draining from his face. Then he turned to face Sally.

"What he said." Then he turned to join the other two.

Sally stood rooted to the floor, waiting for the shivers to pass. There was never anyone she was more afraid of than Doctor John Watson at that moment.

Having given his professional opinion by the time Lestrade joined them, John was leaning in the doorway staying out of Sherlock's way. The detective was buzzing about the room with the boundless energy that consumed him every time he found a case that captured his attention. A dead woman with an alibi and a suspect also with an alibi in a room full of people with no witnesses was turning out to be one of those cases. John's eyes flicked to Lestrade, an amused tolerance in his blue eyes.

"She'll live."

"I hope so. She looked like she'd been sucker punched."

"Someone had to say it sometime. Although I might not stick to just talking if Anderson opens his big mouth again." John turned his gaze back to the detective now standing at the skylight, examining something on its edge. "Found something, 'Lock?" he called out.

Lestrade emitted a strangled sound and tried to cover it up with a cough. John smirked at him. It hit Lestrade then. The doctor had seemed different over those past few weeks. It was a subtle air of change and Lestrade had only had a vague feeling since John hardly behaved any different.

But now, it was staring him in the face. The power, the confidence that rolled off the small man in waves, was potent and raw. It was the presence of Captain John Watson, RAMC medical officer and front-line soldier, trained in Sandhurst and the desert heat of Afghanistan. Like many others, the DI had overlooked the man as Sherlock' shadow, until he'd shot that cabbie.

Funny enough, between the three of them it was an open secret, and Lestrade had no intention of breaking that trust with either Sherlock or John. Those two needed each other and Lestrade knew better than most how much John really did for the high-strung young detective. He turned his head to look at John.

"I told him," was the soft reply to his unasked question.

"And?"

"He does too."

"Good." Lestrade face-palmed. _Good_? Really? Was that the best he could do to show he was happy for the new couple?

"Its okay Greg," John hadn't moved but his voice was a bit louder. "We know." John turned to give a brilliant smile to the dazed Inspector. "Thank you."


End file.
